


Puzzles of Chevron Five

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:06:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have a ritual of sorts, in which they almost manage to be sweet to one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puzzles of Chevron Five

**Author's Note:**

> Someone asked for a drabble in which everything is good and nobody hurts. This is the result.
> 
> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

It’s these in between moments he lives for, as beautiful as they are rare. The way his lips curl ever so slightly, the Master must be having a rare, good day. With neither sanity nor temper troubled, he’s sort of charming if the Doctor is honest. 

He doesn’t say a word when the Master joins him in the library. He hardly dares to breathe for fear of ruining everything. It’s a song and dance he knows well by now, though, and he’s not surprised when the Master plunks down with a book at the other end of the couch. 

It’s all a show, of course, as if even after all this time, the Master couldn’t possibly want his company. They’re not at each other’s throats so often lately, at least, and look there’s the Master, two feet away and not even mocking him. He goes back to the puzzle he’s working out, a brilliant little game he picked up on Chevron 5, not so unlike a very complicated Sudoku puzzle. 

“You’ve got those backwards,” the Master murmurs, giving the holographic display a rather bored look. It’s possibly true, but the words don’t matter, simply the beginning of this ritual between them that never quite seems to die. 

“I was coming back to that part, they’re just sort of place holders right now anyway,” the Doctor argues good naturedly, grinning through the display. 

“You’re rubbish at those anyway. I don’t know why you bother,” the Master mocks, though it bears none of the bite of a real insult. It’s almost a script by now, the banter an excuse for the Master to slide closer under the guise of rescuing the Doctor’s puzzle. 

He wonders sometimes if it’s a conscious thing. It probably is, the way the Master adores plotting. He probably thinks he’s being subtle even, and the Doctor will never call him on it, but it’s a constant source of amusement. He pretends not to notice the proximity when the Master is right beside him on the couch, reaching out to shuffle numbers. 

“I’m perfectly good at them,” he argues, one arm hooking around the Master’s shoulders to steady him when he leans in to look at the display.

“How can you possibly think that? These are all in the wrong order,” the Master chides, leaning into his grip. He doesn’t have the heart to own up that they’re messed up just a bit on purpose. Instead he just grins and bears the insult. 

“It hardly matters if I’m any good. It’s a game. The point is to have fun.” The Master isn’t listening anymore anyway, momentarily distracted in earnest by the puzzle. That’s pretty par for the course as well, and the Doctor sits back and waits for him to solve it, pretending not to notice the way the Master has all but melted against him. 

“There. Child’s play,” the Master mutters, pushing the little display aside until it’s floating over the side table, freeing up the Doctor’s hand. The Master looks up like he’s only just noticed how close they are, like he’s somehow stunned by the Doctor’s arms curled around him. The Doctor hasn’t quite worked out yet if it’s feigned or genuine, but it’s strangely sweet, in the odd, awkward way the Master so often manages to be. 

They stay like that, frozen with the Master mostly molded against his side. The Doctor always half expects the Master to bolt, because this is honest and vulnerable, but he never does. Instead, it’s the Master who leans in, lips pressing over the Doctor’s. 

For all the friction between them, they move beautifully together like this. The Master’s tongue flicks across his lips until they part, and there are hands in his hair, startlingly gentle for all the brutality the Master is capable of. They fit like puzzle pieces, from the way his tongue curls in the Master’s mouth to the way the Master shuffles closer like such a desperate thing, knees caging his hips. 

He’s not sure how long they stay there. He loses himself in the rhythm of lips and fingers and heartbeats, in the solid press and honey scent of another body against his. Even the Master seems to have forgotten all his pretenses, and he murmurs appreciatively in the breaths between them. 

It won’t last. They’ll find something to fight over sooner or later, almost certainly sooner in fact. They’re lovely and brutal, vicious plots and wounding words, and he aches just as often as he loves. Sometimes though, sometimes they have this, and he’s sure more often than not that it’s worth all the rest.


End file.
